I am slowly writing a memoir of my Catholic Childhood in India. Scroll to the bottom for the chapters I’ve already written. Thank for reading along as I share the first version.The final one, no doubt, will be shorter!

Father Theo Mathias, S. J., my father’s brother, who was the Director of XLRI while we lived there

When my father retired as Controller of Accounts at Tata Iron and Steel, Jamshedpur, at the mandatory age of 60, full of experience and vigour, I was at an expensive boarding school, St. Mary’s Convent, Nainital, and my younger sister Shalini was 11. We were, unusually, born in his late forties, and he had little wish to retire,

He was, providentially, offered a job as Financial Controller at XLRI, Xavier Labour Relations Institute, a prestigious American Jesuit-run post-graduate business school, one of South Asia’s oldest and highest rankest business schools–serendipitously located in Jamshedpur–with, surprisingly, an increase in salary. My father loved his new job, a combination of Chief Financial Officer, Treasurer and Internal Auditor—merrily making enemies as he queried fanciful expense accounts. We lived in Faculty Housing on the XLRI campus for eight years.

* * *

Jamshedpur, a small town in Bihar, was not an entirely quixotic choice for a Business School. The Tatas, Zoroashtrian industrialists, had settled there, drawn by iron ore; Jamshedpur hosted two of India’s largest companies, Tata Iron and Steel, or TISCO, and Tata Electric Locomotive Company, TELCO. Jamshedpur attracted executives from all over India; few managers were born there!! For a small town in an under-developed rural state, it had a large pool of educated, intelligent, ambitious people.

* * *

Xavier Labor Relations Institute was founded and run by American Jesuits from the Baltimore province, with priests on loan, like Father Arroyo from the Jesuit Gujarat province, a missionary project of the Spanish Jesuits; as well as Mangalorean Jesuits from the India’s Karnataka Province. (The Jesuits, like the Catholic Church, were an early and great multinational!) However, though XLRI was then largely staffed by American priests, my father’s younger brother, Father Theo Mathias, a Jesuit, was the Director during the eight years that we lived there. My father held Theo up to us as a role model of perfection. “Lolling? Wasting time? I don’t think Theo wastes even five minutes.”

The friendly, genial American Jesuits on campus, Fathers Keogh, MacGrath, Moran, and Guidera referred to Theo as “your kid brother,” when they spoke to my father, which amused us; both dignified gentlemen were in their sixties. “Here comes Noel and his harem,” the American priests would sing out as they saw my father walk through campus with my mother, my sister and me in tow. “XYZ,” they’d tell him, eyeing his fly, which my father worked out as meaning “Check Your Zip.” He was as absent-minded as I am.

East and West! Culture shock–all the time. Father O’Brien, good-natured, dreamy, noticed his student had a mundan, shaved head, a custom of conservative Hindus mourning relatives.

“Hey Ravi,” he slapped him on the back. “How you doing? Why have you shaved your head?”

“My mother died,” the student said, mournfully.

“Great, great,” Father O’Brien patted his shoulder, walking on, quite obviously not having heard a word.

When we were invited to dinner at the Jesuits’ house, peacocks strutted, manifesting their radiant plumage–both pets, food, mewling alarm-raisers (and alarm clocks!). Heart-meltingly sweet caged rabbits provided free and delicious meals, and the house was guarded by beautiful pure-bred Alsatians, parents of our Brutus.

Some of the priests were radical, left-wing, and I listened, open-eared and fascinated, as they openly criticized the Vatican for censoring Hans Kung, and patiently explained Liberation Theology to me. These idealistic men had come to India expecting to serve and convert the poor, but puzzled, often piqued and restless, found themselves preparing ambitious go-getting business managers, while hoping to transmit Christ’s values to them, so the Christian ethic might trickle through society, like salt, like light.

I used to attend the weekday student masses on the XLRI campus in my very Catholic phase, after working with Mother Teresa for fourteen months. The wind of the Sixties–a post-Vatican II loosening-up and liberation–had blown to India—though it took a decade. We sat on the floor on cushions, and sung toe-tapping folksy songs, accompanied by guitars–“Make God your guru,” “Honey in the Rock,” “He is my Everything”, a far cry from the soulful, formal hymns of boarding school. At Mass, we sung “Kumbaya,” and “Blowing in the Wind,” singing protest songs against Vietnam and for Civil Rights quite oblivious of their origins.

How many times must the cannon balls fly,

Before they are forever banned?

An’ how many ears must one man have

Before he can hear people cry?

And how many deaths will it take till he knows

That too many people have died?

And on and on it went. How soulful it all sounded, how many calls to action, too many, blown away by the wind before any took root in heart or conscience.

* * *

XLRI offered an MBA in Industrial Relations and Business Management, drawing students from all over India, as well as Sri Lanka, Bhutan, Iran, and Malaysia to Jamshedpur, my sleepy little hometown. It was ranked fifth among India’s 800 business schools.

Since fewer than 1% of applicants were accepted, Professors on the admissions committee, as my father every year was, were offered myriad bribes. My father scanned the letters, then flung them in the waste paper basket. I retrieved one. “Why are you torturing me?” and then, “Okay, I can offer an additional five thousand rupees.” Wealth, emigration, marriage prospects for men, reduced dowry for women–a lot hinged on the right education.

My father’s secretary, sorting the mail, snorted “This bloody fool thinks he can draw green hearts on the envelope and get into XLRI.”

Every year my father, his brother Father Theo, and their younger brother Eric interviewed short-listed applicants at Bombay at Oberoi Sheraton or Taj Intercontinental, exclusive hotels which then catered to foreigners or the very rich. Eric and my father had unregenerate sweet tooths, and, still boarding school boys at heart, attacked the buffet first, eating black forest gateaux, trifles, knickerbocker glories, and eclairs before they considered, well, real food. Though my father had became health conscious in his late fifties, his resistance crumbled when confronted with twenty Western desserts. (I myself used to start with the dessert at buffets all through my twenties and thirties, but now avoid sugar–which would astonish the child who looked forward to heaven as the country of unlimited condensed milk, jaggery and Cadbury’s chocolate.)

* * *

Living on the XLRI campus provided more cultural and intellectual stimulation than usual in a small Indian town. We attended everything when XLRI hosted Kaleidoscope, an annual national inter-collegiate cultural festival. Teams from all over India competed for a few frenzied days of music, debating, and drama competitions. There were quiz competitions, based on the B.B.C.’s Mastermind; elocution competitions: reciting famous purple passages of poetry or prose, and “Just a Minute” impromptu oratorical competitions in which one was given, well, just a minute to argue a point, starting the instant a topic was announced. (I was rather good at it!)

The drama club hosted a stunning production of Of Mice and Men by a visiting American theatre troupe, and Agatha Christie’s Ten Little Niggers by XLRI students, who probably did not realize that the word was offensive in the States; interestingly, the American priests didn’t tell them. When I loved a play, I’d get my father to ask the students for the script, and take it up to boarding school where I directed them as fundraisers for our Social Service League—Moliere’s The Miser when I was fourteen and Overtones by Alice Gerstenberg when I was 15. Overtones has feral shadow selves voice their thoughts, while the social selves shallowly smile; it shaped my perceptions of social life: the scowling shadow self behind the smiling face.

Unusually in our recently colonized country, XLRI’s library was well stacked not only with Jesuit and Catholic writers, but American classics, absent both from the local Club libraries and from my school library which had, almost entirely, British authors. Besides, being on faculty in an American-run institution enabled my father to borrow books for me from the United States Information Service in Calcutta.

I read T. S. Eliot for the first time, there because he was American, enchanted by the rhythm and resonance of the words long before I worked out the meaning. I memorized Gerald Manley Hopkins, there because he was Jesuit; like Eliot, he spoke to me, pulse to pulse, heartbeat to heartbeat. I was learning the magic language of poetry. My theological understanding developing, I read St. Augustine’s Confessions, there because he was Catholic, enchanted by his sense of simultaneous plots and stories in our lives. You acted with malice: he addresses the teachers of his youth, but God was active too, shaping it all for good.

During the three month winter vacation from boarding school, I checked out “The Hundred Greatest Speeches,” and memorized speeches for the elocution competitions at boarding school: Frederick Douglas on the Fourth of July, Fellow citizens, above your national, tumultuous joy, I hear the mournful wail of millions; Martin Luther King’s resonant, “I have a dream” and “The Gettysburg Address.” Decades later, I still remember them; their rhythms beat in my veins.

I read the writers the priests suggested, sobbing over the stunning final scene of “The Grapes of Wrath.” One winter, I checked out Eugene O’Neil, Tennessee Williams, Arthur Miller and then Ibsen from the XLRI library, reading play after play. I read rapidly when I was home, a book a day. We had a live-in cleaner and cook, so there was no domestic work. There was no TV; except for the three movies we went to each week, I had nothing to do but read.

* * *

The students hosted marketing festivals to test-market new products, guinea-pigging their customers into market research in the form of games. My mother played intently and came home with bags of Lux Supreme Soap, Bianca Toothpaste, Five Star Chocolate and tins of Utterly Butterly Delicious Amul Cheese or its domestic competitor Teg’s. My father watched from a distance, quietly amused.

My mother invited particularly bright, charming students over to dinner. They asked us to dance at Christmas dances, bestowed our first kisses on us. Coolness was prized; the cool were “hep,” or the “hep cats”; those who tried too hard were the “pseuds.” In retrospect, there was probably little difference between them.

Business seeped into my artistic blood during those eight years of living on the campus of a business school: I borrowed the books the students read in their Organizational Behaviour course from the XLRI library—introductions to psychology, to Transactional Analysis–“I’m OK; You’re OK,” though what really interested me was the genesis, inspiration and elements of business, what makes them succeed or fail. I own my own business now; perhaps those years in faculty housing of a Business School indirectly inspired me to see the world in business as well as poetic terms, untapped wealth-generation ideas blushing unseen everywhere.

Though XLRI had foreign students from all over Asia and the Middle East, there was only one African, a Nigerian called Charlie. Charlie fancied Indian woman. Undaunted by repeated, inevitable and sometimes horrified rebuffs, he assiduously proposed marriage to fellow students, stenographers and telephone operators. My father said his secretary burst into his office, wailing, “Charlie asked me to marry him.” The entire college community would now tease the latest intended…until Charlie proposed to someone else.

My mother once invited Charlie when we had students over to lunch. He talked about…marriage! In Nigeria, he said, brides were sent to fattening parlours before their wedding day. Being hefty was sexually attractive, he implied, a status symbol.

My father claimed Charlie looked straight at me, as he said that. I was five feet 2 and weighed 116 pounds to the despair of my parents who wanted me to weigh 100. They teased, “Well, you could diet, or you could marry Charlie.”

* * *

Mini-cab drivers and rickshaw-wallahs called the leafy campus of Xavier Labor Relations Institute on the outskirts of town “Jaber-Laber.” “Jaber-Laber please,” we said. To the English-speaking, it was XLRI, or serendiptiously, XL, Excel, an acronym much milked.

The priests built faculty housing in an enclave adjoining the University; like our house at Tata Steel, the flat came with the job, and was surrendered with it. Providing housing helped employers attract talent in a developing economy in which banks did not offer mortgages. (People saved, and bought houses with cash, often after retirement; the improvident never did.) Housing and other non-taxable perks—TISCO provided medical care, telephone service, and cafeterias–kept the taxable salaries of businessmen in company towns low.

I enjoyed strolling on the road which meandered through the campus with faculty and staff housing, free-standing two storied apartments, each assigned to two families, on one side, and brilliant red-flowered flame of the forest and bottle brush trees on the other. Each house had two balconies; oases where I sat and gazed at the flowering trees, which made my world expand. The flat was much smaller than our large house at Tata Steel.

The faculty and staff of XLRI worked together during the day, and lived a few yards apart in the evenings; almost every family had domestic help, a maid or a cook, who hung out with each other. What was whispered in living or dining rooms, virally transmitted through the servants, reached the rooftops where families migrated in the evening. Any illusion of privacy was, well, illusory.

In his hours off, our cook Durga sat in the sun outside the campus gates with other off-duty servants and the Gurkhas, indomitable Nepalese watchmen, who were guards at XLRI and the Jesuit residence. He returned with juicy gossip–which members of the faculty hated each other, whose wife was going quietly insane in the privacy of their house, whose secretary was shamelessly flirting with her boss, who just happened to be a priest. Perhaps my mother slipped insinuations in turn; my father claimed that anyone who listened to gossip must offer some. And probably, our secrets left the house by the same channels that other people’s secrets entered it.

While an acre of garden surrounded our Tata Steel house like a moat, at XLRI we were assigned the top floor of the apartment building. There were neighboursbeneath us. According to campus tradition, families on the upper floor used the rooftop terrace to eat dessert and relax in the cool of the summer evening, or sit and read, soaking up the sun on winter evenings. We hung out laundry, spread out shrimp, meat, ginger, and vegetables on dishcloths to sun-dry for pickles, and even slept up on the terrace on sweltering summer nights; it functioned as an extra room. The people on the lower floor traditionally had the small garden to themselves to hang out their laundry, and to cultivate.

Moving from a twelve room house with an additional outdoor kitchen and quarters for two servants to a three bedroom house with one outdoor room for a servant and no garden was a huge transition. My mother pined for a garden, having grown her own flowers, fruit, vegetables and herbs all her married life. We had crisp freshly-picked lettuce and fresh tomatoes or capsicum (sweet peppers) for breakfast layered in cheese sandwiches; made pestos with our own mint and coriander; and my father made himself a garden-fresh salad for lunch, not liking to eat raw food that the cook had touched, for he suspected him of not washing his hands.

The lady downstairs, Mrs. Gupta, was a recluse, made strange and half-crazed by loneliness within her yellow-walled house. Less-educated than her respected professor husband (as often happens in arranged marriages where parental life savings “buy” a better educated spouse, whose salary, would, perhaps, support both sets of parents in old age) she was out of her depth in the University environment. Though this indolent, eccentric woman rarely stepped outside her house, and had done precisely nothing about planting a garden in all the years they had lived there, she was furious to see my mother plant a garden on what, by campus tradition, was her earth.

One day, as my mother was pruning and harvesting, Mrs. Gupta rushed out of her house with a packet of seeds, flinging them over the hard weed-choked ground, almost dancing in her rage, as the multi-armed goddess Kali danced over battlefields.

“Mrs. Mathias,” she yelled. “This is my garden. See, I am using the garden. See, I am planting my seeds.”

There were interventions. The soft-spoken husbands managed the families’ foreign policy, and my mother was given half the garden, in which she densely planted flowers, vegetables and herbs; papaya, banana, and mulberry trees; and perennial fruiting shrubs like roselle. Mrs. Gupta, it was agreed, could use the terrace, though being a recluse, she never did—for then we might have seen her. In the eight years we lived there, I saw her once.

And so we co-existed, an uneasy truce. When I returned from boarding school, and my mother and I were left alone while my father was at work, we scrapped, screaming at each other, rushing at my father with our tales of woe and complaint as he entered the house.

Professor Gupta bumped into my sister as they entered the building, and said dryly, meaningfully, “I hear your sister’s home.” And so he must have.

* * *

The next salvo. Mrs Gupta hired a “jungli” (as the Adivasi forest dwellers who belonged to the scheduled or “backward tribes” were then bluntly called) to dig her half of the garden, preparing the hard, compacted, rocky, never cultivated laterite soil for planting. This was iron country; the red soil was riddled with murram, pellets of iron ore. He labored, day after day, from dawn to dusk. And when, each evening, he presented himself at her door for payment, she inspected the plot and said, “No, it’s not deep enough; it’s not wide enough.”

The man continued the exhausting digging with the dumb accepting air of a sad animal, afraid of quitting and not being paid for the work he had already done. However, when she kept commanding, “Dig deeper. It’s not deep enough. I will pay you when it is finished,” our cook Durga told him to quit. “She’ll never pay you,” he warned. And, sorrowfully and reluctantly, the man finally did leave. Never paid. It was the first time I’ve observed someone who made a game of power and exploitation.

Mrs. Gupta never did have a garden. Little was planted on that cruelty-cursed earth, and little grew. Her half of the yard was soon weedy, overgrown and neglected, but it was hers, and she had it.

The faculty flat came with an outdoor room for a servant. Mrs. Gupta let hers to a woman who, well… Durga said men on motorcycles came at night, stayed a while, and then left. During the day, Mrs Gupta worked that woman–no fixed hours or half-day off as our servants had. Sweep, scrub, cook, wash up, do laundry, iron. But when she said, “Ma, hum jata hai,” “Ma, I’m going,” the parting greeting of the servant going off duty, Mrs. Gupta would say, “Wait, massage my feet. Massage my daughter Kalpana’s feet; massage my daughter Archana’s feet,” keeping her on, keeping her on, maintaining no boundaries, exploiting that woman’s weak position and vulnerability.

* * *

Somewhat ironically for a University which taught Industrial Relations and Business Management, XLRI had a “strike”–endemic in India, the way to negotiate wage increases or better work conditions.

“Labour,” the staff: secretaries, telephone operators, and clerks, struck against “Management,” the administration which included most Jesuits and faculty, including my father’s brother, Theo, the Director and my father himself, the Financial Controller (who would, anyway, have sided with his brother, that blood and water thing).

Some of the bleeding-heart liberal, almost radical, American Jesuits sided with the staff; this was to be expected, given their temperament and politics. They were children of the sixties; they were forgiven. An Indian Jesuit from Mangalore, however, sided with the staff, to be cool, to court popularity, the other Jesuits said in disgust; and he was never forgiven. Eventually, he was moved to the University of Detroit, and his archenemy, the fiery Spanish Jesuit who, quite properly, took the side of the administration and thought this betrayal of his Jesuit brothers inexcusable was moved to St. Joseph’s, Philadephia. To the Jesuits, the world was a chessboard.

The strike was a big fat exciting game for the students. It had an air of gaiety and unreality, an unexpected foretaste of big boy life, making pompous and solemn armchair ethicists of them.

The students sided with labour—the charms of the underdog whom you don’t have to feed. They were playing at being liberal, but this would change once they became management, my father snorted. The more radical people were in youth, the more they became pillars of the establishment at the scent of money, he said, recollecting the hot-air talk of the young Indians he knew in London in the forties and fifties, who returned to India, made money, and became conservative, forgetting youthful idealism and patriotism.

We felt under siege during the strike, waking up to see the air released from our car’s tires, and long gashes in the silver paint of the Fiat my father loved. He insisted that we stay at home during the strike, and so we did.

My father’s ability to keep secrets was better than mine, but not spectacularly so. He eventually let slip that posters saying, “Director, get rid of your inefficient retired brother,” were plastered over campus. Too punctilious to be inefficient, and persnickety about the strictest honesty, my father was, if anything, too competent. As he had at Tata’s, he challenged creative accounting, and greedily and imaginatively padded expense accounts. And so, he discovered the truth of Emerson’s saying, “He who has a thousand friends has not one to spare; he who has an enemy shall see him everywhere.”

I was surprised to hear my father say that he prayed every day. Like many neophyte believers, I considered spirituality my domain.

“You pray?” I said. “What do you pray for?”

“I pray for you and Shalini and Dan.”

My father detested Dan, an unpleasant clerical worker who was the ringleader of the strike, taking advantage of the gentle, fair-minded, generous and out-of-their depth American priests to demand concessions unusual for India. Dan was responsible for those offensive posters.

“For us and Dan?” I was almost offended. “Why Dan?”

“Because Jesus said we should pray for our enemies,” he said–adding hastily, “Not just our enemies.”

May was the Month of our Lady, when Father Jesus Calvo, the Spanish parish priest, corralled the entire Catholic community of Jamshedpur to say the rosary standing outside the grotto of St. Mary’s Church, a man-made cave of rocks and mortar, overplanted with vines and flowers–modeled on the grotto at which the Virgin appeared to Bernadette at Lourdes.

“Hail Mary,” “Holy Mary,” the words rose and fell, hypnotic as the sea, 50 repetitions, punctuated by the mini-relief of the Glory Be, and the Memorare at the end, like the promise of better things: “Remember, Oh most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thy intercession was left unaided.”

My mother bowed over her rosary, her long-lashed eyes closed, an image of fervor and devotion. My father prayed rapidly, head down, frowning, as if his own rapidity would hasten the conclusion.

Decades later, adults recalled how I slipped away, climbed to the top of the grotto, and squatted there, monkey-like, surveying the crowd. Giggles rose.

My father, hearing them, instantly looked for me. It was a reflex. There I was, on top of the grotto, the eyes of every Catholic in Jamshedpur on me.

“Anita, come down,” he hissed. I remained there, grinning. Behind my bravado was the secret I always remembered too late: I was afraid of heights.

“Anita come down,’ he hissed between clenched lips as children giggled and adults prayed, laughter in their voices. Finally, my dignified father, senior management in that company town, fifty-two years old to my seven, squeezed through the crowd, past the amputee Mrs Watkins, past Mr. D’Costa who owned Boulevard Hotel, and Mrs. D’Cruz who owned a nursery school, and crawled up the grotto, and then inched down, half-carrying me, while around us the laughter-speckled rosary rose and fell, “Hail Mary, full of grace.”

* * *

Catholic social life in Jamshedpur revolved around the Parish Church of St. Mary’s, the Catholic Family Movement, and the Mangalorian-Goan Association.

Goa and Mangalore were both colonized by the Portuguese, and four hundred years later, traces endure in the names–Mathias, Coelho, Mascarenhas, Gonsalves, Rebello, Pinto, Saldanha; the imported religion, Catholicism; and the language, Konkani, only spoken only by Goans and Mangaloreans, a patois of Portuguese and the Kannada and Marathi spoken by the indigenous communities before colonization. Konkani was officially my mother-tongue, but I have never learned it; neither did my father, who as the son of an upwardly mobile surgeon, was only taught English.

Mangalorian-Goan food too was distinctive–sarpatel, a pork curry, thickened by added pig’s blood, eaten with sannas, fluffy steamed rice cakes, fermented in toddy. Kube, a curry of clams or cockles, was breakfast at my grandmother’s house. Fish cooked in coconut milk was ubiquitous, while at teatime, people ate patolio and patrade, dumplings or pancakes stuffed with fresh grated coconut and jaggery, unrefined brown sugar, and steamed in plaintain leaves,

At the Mangalorian-Goan Association dinners, people danced the waltz, one-two together,one-two together, the fox trot, or the polka to Joan Baez, Elvis Presley, or Jerry Lewis. I flung myself between my parents in shock and a fury of jealousy the first time I saw them waltz, trying to separate them. They continued waltzing, laughing.

* * *

Mangaloreans and Goans of all social classes met at Mangalorian-Goan Association meetings. Though they were mainly professionals, there were a few Goans drawn to town as laborerers in the factory, whose children through industry and the good education provided by the Jesuit-run Loyola School—and the fair-mindedness of the Parsee-run Tata Iron and Steel company, started as manual labourers or clerks and ended as managers in a classic arc of upward mobility

I held the hand of a child of the large Andrade family who all moved to Jamshedpur from Goa, drawn by the jobs in TISCO. “Why is your hand so rough?” I asked. “Because I help my mother wash clothes,” she said. My mother had an ayah to do the washing, as I supposed everyone’s mother did. It never occurred to me that children might do the washing. “Youhelp your mother wash clothes?” I said, genuinely shocked. Sabina, embarrassed, avoided me for the rest of our childhoods; her mother never forgave me, and neither did mine.

* * *

An American Jesuit, appropriately called Father Love, founded the Catholic Family Movement in Jamshedpur, which brought together Catholics of the same socio-economic class, an insular tight-knit group.

There were the Saldanhas, the Fernandezes, the Diases who had six children, all of whose names started with D, Denise, Danielle, Douggie, Diane, Denzil, and David. There was an Anglo-Indian family, the Thompsons, whose daughter Paula my sister Shalini adored down to her freckles and long, brown ringlets. My father claimed Shalini’s Litany of the Virgin went “Paula most pure, Paula most amiable, Paula most admirable,” and whenever I misbehaved, my father would say of Paula’s handsome brother, “Anita, if you’re so naughty, Jeff will never marry you, but he’ll marry Shalini without hesitation.”

The adults gathered together for spiritual instruction about which we felt no curiosity; we played together in the host child’s bedroom, until everyone crowded around the potluck, an innovation of the American priests. The Indian way would have been for the host to say “Oh, please don’t worry. I’ll just prepare a little something,” and then spend a week commandeering a lavish banquet.

Everyone competed to produce the most delectable dishes; we tasted, we begged the recipe. Unless it was brought by Blanche, wife of the local Mangalorian doctor, Bert Lasrado, British-trained as my father was. Blanche was the first woman in town with a self-contained freezer; its potential exhilarated her. While others brought freshly-cooked aromatic dishes, she announced the provenance of her offering–prawn balchow: three months old; chicken indad: six months old; lamb vindaloo: eight months old, to general consternation and withering of appetites.

We served what we called “western food”; rather to my surprise, when I immigrated to England, I found nothing like the delicious “English” food I had grown up with–“pan rolls,” crepes, fried in egg and bread crumbs, filled with spicy ground beef we called minced meat. “Potato chops,” mashed potato patties with the same spicy minced beef filling, pan-fried in a batter of egg and bread crumbs. “Cutlets,” like hamburgers, except that they were cooked with onions, green chilis, coriander and mint. “Meat puffs,” crisp hot pastry stuffed with curried minced lamb and onions.

After dinner, Dougie Diaz or Benny Fernandez produced guitars and led us in “Jamaica Farewell,” “Old Man River,” or “Banana Boat Song,” the blues being particularly popular, or “Clementine,” “Silver Dollar,” “Country Roads” or “Una Paloma Blanca.”

The lyrics were mysterious, but we sang along

Met her on the mountain,
Swore she’d be my wife,

But the gal refused me

So I stabbed her with a knife.

Hang down your head Tom Dooley

Hang your head and cry,
Hang down you head Tom Dooley

Poor boy you’re gonna die.

We similarly sung along to the Beatles song,

Desmond has a barrow in the marketplace

Molly is a singer in the band,

Oh bloodee, oh blood-dah,

the chorus striking us as deliciously naughty.

My father had been to America, but most of us hadn’t. Still we sung the nonsense rhyme knowledgeably,

I’ve come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee,

I’m going to Louisiana, my true love for to see

It rained all night the day I left, the weather it was dry

The sun so hot, I froze to death, Susannah, don’t you cry.

What did all the lyrics mean? Who knows? But it all felt magical…Daylight come and I wanna go home.

~~~~

We rented a beach house in Puri, Orissa, with the Diases, Thompsons, and other CFMers, one of whom brought his gun, and shot doves, pigeons and even sparrows, which we roasted over an improvised fire of bricks and sticks–delicious. Their son was allowed to handle the gun, and I, aged seven, seeing it left unattended, picked it up, looked through the sights and pulled the trigger. The safety catch was off; bang!! I was terrified and exhilarated, though I did not shoot a bird (or myself). The father ran out and cuffed his son, and I felt ashamed and guilty for it had all been my fault.

Many Catholic families began to emigrate in the early seventies; the Diazes, the Thompsons and D’Costas to Canada; the Gomes to Australia, and the Fernandezes to America. We implored my father to emigrate too, but he refused. He had been an immigrant in London in his twenties and thirties; there was no way he was going through that in his fifties, and there was no budging him. With the emigrations, the C.F.M changed, and we stopped going.

* * *

The Catholic Diocese of Jamshedpur was a missionary project of the Jesuit Maryland Province in Baltimore; it was run by hearty, good-hearted Irish-American priests: Father McGauley, Father MacFarland, Father Guidera, and Father O’Leary, the Parish Priest. There was a scattering of other priests from the world-wide fraternity of the Jesuits–Father Durt, a Belgian, who built St. Mary’s Hindi School for underprivileged children, and, on loan from the Spanish Gujarat Mission in Ahmedabad, Father Calvo, a kindly Spanish priest, who helped me develop a magnificent stamp collection, by asking everyone to send me stamps from the 1968 Olympics in Mexico.

The Jesuits were respected, even loved, by Jamshedpurians, Catholic and non-Catholic, for they also ran Loyola School which turned out well-educated, achieving boys, and the local Business School, Xavier Labor Relations Institute (at which my father was a Financial Controller and Professor for eight years) whose very competitive course in Business Management and Industrial Relation drew students from all over India, as well as Iran, Malaysia and Nigeria.

We had the American Jesuits over for meals and parties, and ate at the Jesuit residence, particularly when my father’s brother, Father Theo Mathias, was Director of XLRI. My father could not get over the fact that, unlike Indian Jesuits who, at that time, came from upper or upper-middle class educated families, among American Irish Catholics, one son became a priest, one became a cop, and one a crook, or so the priests told us! When Father O’Brien told us of his father, the butcher, who distilled and sold moonshine in Baltimore during Prohibition, my father marveled. “Can you imagine, Anita? Father O’Brien is a butcher’s son! And his father, though a pious Catholic, had no compunction about breaking the law!”

* * *

The priests returned from furlough with coveted American brand names–Campbell’s chicken noodle soup, Smarties, Jello, Betty Crocker cake mixes, Danish Butter Cookies, cans of Spam, squeezable tubes of icing, everything foreign having cachet. These they gave to their favourite Catholic housewives who compared their loot, apparently carelessly, “Oh Father MacFarland is so sweet; he got me lovely Devil’s Food Cake mix,” happy if their loot was the most and best, and secretly cross about Lola or Deidre’s Angel’s Food cake.

From America too came boxes of lightly used clothes that had been collected for the poor in India; these were given to favourite parishioners, or sold at jumble sales to middle class Catholics, the proceeds used for the poor. Some of my loved clothes came via America—my fuchsia winter coat for my Himalayan boarding school, a red plaid coat with a fur collar; an shimmering silk blouse with mother of pearl buttons that I passed off as school uniform; a pale blue silk dress, red galoshes.

From boxes of donated books shipped from America, I acquired precious, influential books: Catherine Marshall’s “Beyond Ourselves,” and “Something More,” “The Cross and the Switchblade,” and “Run, Baby Run.” Boxes of old magazines arrived: Chatelaine, McCalls, Family Home Circle, and Good Housekeeping, in which we found the recipe for walnut brownies, adding a new much-imitated item on the party circuit. I leafed through the glossy pages, craving dolls that walked and talked, doll houses, walkie-talkie radios one could receive by sending in a postcard; glossy magazines of dreams, never gratified in my childhood, though my Uncle Theo did buy me a Barbie doll on his annual trip to the States even after I entered my teens and was more interested in make-up than dolls.

The more radical Jesuits’ sympathy with the Adivasis, oppressed tribal peoples, was in advance of the political sensibilities both of the government, who were suspicious of the priests and hassled them at visa renewal time, and of other Indian Catholics, who wondered what the fuss was about. “Damn histrionics,” the men muttered at our parties. I wonder if they were disappointed to be sent to India and end up educating the children of the upper classes and aspirant middle classes.

* * *

The Catholics from Mangalore, Goa and Bombay (all converted by the Portuguese) traditionally visited each other between Christmas Day and the 6th of January, the feast of the Epiphany, when the Magi visited Jesus.

Weeks before Christmas, my mother began creating the distinctive Christmas food, kushwar in Konkani, offered to visitors, and given in little boxes to my father’s colleagues, and to nuns, teachers, priest, and friends, Hindu or Christian. And at Diwali (with much jubilation), we got little boxes of Indian sweets from our Hindu friends.

The piece de resistance was home-made marzipan we handcrafted into exquisite cherries, apricots, oranges and pears, painting a blush on the peaches, shading the apples in red, denting the strawberries with toothpicks, completing the verisimilitude with a little wooden stem, and a cloth leaf, bought from a confectioner in Calcutta, and reused each year.

* * *

How foreign Christmas was when I was a child, how imported. We lopped the top off one of the two scraggly fir trees in our garden, hauling it indoors to deck it with cotton wool or popcorn snow. We sent each other Christmas cards of robins in snowy fields and sleighs in an entranced Snow Queen landscape, though the sun blazed all December as it might have done in Bethlehem. We carolled outside all the Catholic houses, singing Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer; Freddy, the Little Fir Tree, and Jingle Bells–a Nordic Christmas transplanted to the tropics.

Congregations that barely knew English sung Gloria in Excelsius Deo in Latin at midnight mass. And then we returned home to eat Christmas fruit cake, and drink the very sweet homemade wine made from raisins or jamun and mulberries from our garden that we never considered alcoholic, so much so that, decades later, I was amazed to see people smile when I sat at a party, a glass of wine in my hands, and declared I was a teetotaler!

And what did all this have to do with the sweet, humble birth in a manger? Generations of westerners had successfully transported the husk of Christmas to Indian homes, while the kernel lay forgotten, in India, as elsewhere, as elsewhere. Still, glor-ooo-ooo-reeaa in ex-cel-sius Deo, we sung, though many would have been nonplussed if asked to translate.

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